How Slut Shaming Turned Me Into a Much Better Slut

Slut shaming has helped me to become the best slut I could hope to be. And the best part? I seem to get more advice every day! It seems that everyone has an opinion on how I could improve.

As I walk down the street wearing my summer shorts, I may hear a kindly old couple say to each other (in voices that must only be raised due to their failing hearing) "Look at that girl!" "Next thing you know, these slutty girls will be wearing booty shorts to go out!"

But do I hide my bouncy, round butt in shame? No! They've given me a great idea! Why don't I show off just how delectable my ass is in some slamming booty shorts? In fact, the tighter the better. I want a pair I need to grease up to get on!

When I hear the little goings on that follow me as I go about my daily life - disgusted stares at the supermarket while I'm wearing my v-neck shirts, gasps of indignation at my above-the-knee skirts at the office, the not-at-all-jealous whispers of those who are surely more saintly than I - I am reminded of one thing for sure:

Everyone thinks I'm a slut.

Why shouldn't they? After all, these are the same people who go on believing myths, such as that the Victorian-aged ladies had to cover their table legs to hide them from horny men who couldn't control their urges around shapely objects. These are the same people who think that I'm too stupid to know for myself whether or not I want to be ravaged in the middle of the mall - or maybe just didn't want to sweat up a storm on the dance floor.

But it's okay, I digress! I enjoy being a slut.

When I hear about the parties of the big Wall Street heavy hitters of the '80s, where you could get a handful of cocaine and a handful of tits before you had time to take in what you were doing, I know that I am the product of that: I am the epitome of whorish nature that women these days just can't seem to avoid.

When I hear about the swinging parties of the '70s and the free love of the '60s, where orgies are talked about as being so commonplace you could practically trip over them on the sidewalk, do I think I'm a proper lady for wearing a pencil skirt?

Of course not! I know that I could top them all in my string bikini!

Screw a few strangers in a big pile of bodies? That's okay - it was the (insert your generation's party decade here)! But that sleeveless button down I'm wearing with not one, not two, but THREE of the buttons undone...? Yeah, keep looking, I love it!

And I love when I hear about what your generation did right. How the ladies used to wear modest clothes like Daisy Dukes and cut-off tops.

As a matter of fact, I'm grateful!

Without all the generations before me, where would I be? What would I do without the wonders they created for all sluts like me to wear? The crotchless panties, thongs and whoo - edible undies!!

It's nice to know that I have topped even the highest thigh-high fishnet stocking with my inappropriately tight jeans. The jeans that surely serve no other purpose. It could not be possible that the comfort I feel when I wear them is the soft blend of fabrics. Without a doubt, it is the comfort of knowing that wherever I go, anyone who sees me will know that I am a fantastic slut.

The wrap-around shirt? No - it DOESN'T make breastfeeding easier. It's so I can encourage your uncontrollable husband to grope me. And yes - if he does so, it is only my fault.

The little black dress that hovers above my shapely calves? It's all about making you know that there are no lengths that I won't go (or remove) to prove what a slut I am. It has nothing to do with the battle to accept myself or love myself for how I look.

So yes, shame me. Feed into my slutty ways. I won't change, I won't stop. I'll just keep pushing my agenda. My triumph will be not in you, but in your husband.

He may not love me, who could? Without my Jibab, everyone knows that I'm not marriage material. The only thing I am is DTF. It's all I know and all I'm good for. And that's exactly what I'm saying with my 3/4 sleeves.

Now, every once in a while, I get the kindly older woman - you know the type. The one who used to be pretty enough to be a slut, but has aged into that fine area between "too old to party" and "old enough to be nice."

Behind closed doors, tucked away from prying ears and eyes, we have "The Talk."

"You're so brave." She says. "You remind me so much of myself at your age. But..."

I don't need to ask "But what?" I've had this talk too many times. I wait for her to finish in bated breath.

"But... aren't you afraid... of..." She pauses, searching for the right, unoffensive word to convey her worry. "Of... consequences?"

Ah, that word is known so well to sluts around the world.

"Consequences" can mean so many things. Cat calls, assault, pregnancy. The bad names people might call us. The friends we may lose.

Oh, I probably should care about the consequences, but then I look down at my outfit. It's not what's on the inside that counts. I know this. God, who doesn't?

My outfit is the perfect reflection of every fiber of my slutty ways. The cropped leather jacket that covers a thin wisp of fabric that passes for a shirt. The short jean shorts I'm wearing, with the provocative leggings under. The sexy red heels.

This isn't an outfit that I chose to be ironically quirky. It's not a remark that I'm both fun and intellectual. That I like comfort but know how to flirt. No.

This is an outfit that I've chosen to say that my pussy is yours if you want it. My breasts are to be stared at with absolutely no regard for manners or decency. I'm not a loving embrace, but an object of desire.

And desired I will be, goddamn it, or what purpose do I serve on this planet?

Whose right is it, I want to know, to tell me that I should be anything more than a walking snatch? What else could I be?

A mother? Ha! Moms can't be "hot!" Once you have kids, you're to wear nothing but the most prudish of clothing.
A sister? Surely not! Anyone who had any respect for their family wouldn't dare wear what I wear.
A wife? Who would be foolish enough to marry someone who dressed as slutty as me?
A friend? Ridiculous! The only reason I would ever want friends would be to steal their men away.

Everyone knows that a woman's role is defined exclusively by her wardrobe. We all fit so well into these tiny boxes, it'd be crazy to try to break the mold. I know that. I'm fine with that.

Because I like my role as a slut just fine.

I do wish I could write more, but I'm getting ready to go shopping. I've decided to stop using the big chain stores and go straight to lingerie shops and XXX joints to buy my clothes, now.

The other day someone actually said "Hello" to me. I think they must have mistook me for some other type. I guess not everyone realizes that wearing a spaghetti strap shirt means I'm begging for dick like Popeye's "Wimpy" begged for hamburgers.

Anyway, if you want the TL;DR version of my ramblings, here it is:

You are only what you wear. And if you wear any of these, you're a slut:

I'm just so thankful that slut shaming has made me understand not only just how very slutty I am, but how slutty I should be.

Thank you to every person who's ever called me a slut or a whore, to any person who has run up and groped and touched me without asking, to the people who knew about the groping and told me that I was asking for it.

All of you were, and are, right. I am a slut. It says so on the label of my clothes!